


Wouldn't stop you leaving

by FeralCreed



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DCU
Genre: Arthur mooning over Clark, Character Study, Gen, M/M, POV Arthur Curry, POV First Person, and talking with his mom, i guess, set right after the end of BvS, that's it that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:28:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22481032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeralCreed/pseuds/FeralCreed
Summary: Crying eyes, broken bellsBack in course, no one tellsDown we go, wish me wellI don't know where we fellOh, I had a dream that you couldn't hear me screamingTrying to tell you everything but it wouldn't stop you leaving
Relationships: Arthur Curry & Martha Kent, Arthur Curry/Clark Kent, sort of referenced anyway
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	Wouldn't stop you leaving

I asked him, once, what he noticed first about someone. We were sharing a few drinks after a mission, and it wasn't great – warm beer, cold seats, bruised skin – but it still felt like home. A smile, he told me, as one curved across his own face. He said that having one always seemed to make things a little bit better. Brought a little bit of hope back into the world. I'd laughed at him then. It was an all-American answer from an all-American guy, I teased him. I said I was lucky that he hadn't said he looked for something stupid like their innate patriotism. 

There are no smiles the day I say goodbye. 

Not at at that monument in the city. That isn't him. Cold, smooth, inanimate stone... could anything be more different? No. I'm sure the intent behind it is nice and all, people wanting to honor a fallen hero, but it isn't the truth. They idolized Superman, but they never knew Clark Kent. He died in Gotham, sure, but the pain of his final moments is the last thing I wanted to think about. Besides, I'm not a very public person. And when you want to remember someone, you go to their family. Even when it doesn't really include you. 

It's ironic, really. I never met his mother while we had some kind of thing building between us, but weeks after the man died? Here I am, knocking on her door, and not sure why. What can I offer her that Wayne and Diana already haven't? How will I keep it from sounding hollow when hollow is all I feel? I don't have the right to be here. Not really. I never even actually told the man that I liked him, much less talked about what I thought I might be starting to feel. But one look at his mother's face tells me that we have the same ache in the same place. 

She stretches up on her toes to hug me, and I let her. We stand there on the porch for a long moment. The air hangs heavy and humid around us, despite the hint of a breeze that slips through the windchimes, and the drone of cicadas blocks any other noises that might have tried to reach us. It was like this at his grave, and I can't help but think that I know why he loves this place. You can take your time to breathe and get your feet back under you. You can find refuge in the stillness and wait until you're ready to step back into the world and face a myriad of problems that don't seem to exist here. 

“Come on inside,” Martha says as she steps back. Her hands fall to clasp one of mine. “He told me so much about you, you know. I always thought he'd bring you home to see me himself.” 

Her voice cracks on the last word and I wrap my arm around her shoulders as she leads me into the house. Neither one of us can pretend to be okay. And I think that even if we wanted to, we wouldn't, not with each other. Even though this is the first time we're meeting, we're not strangers. Clark always did have a way of unifying people. Hell, he could get them to do anything. I still don't know how. I never really cared, either, because diplomacy was never going to be my thing, so it wasn't like he could teach me what he did. All I needed to know was that he always had my back. 

Had. What an ugly word. Trapping something in the past, where it would never happen again. This was far from the first death I had known. There were people I hadn't been able to save, family elders that had finished their course. But none of them had meant what he'd meant to me. None of them were a home I wouldn't admit to living in, an answer to the question I hadn't known to ask, a regret that sucked the air from my lungs. There's a part of me that wonders if this would hurt less, if they had been, but common sense is quick on its heels. Nothing could make this hurt less. 

“He talked about you all the time, too,” I say. We're sitting in a window bay in the kitchen, and I shift my weight awkwardly, careful not to knock over the glass of lemonade sitting in front of me. I feel too big for this space and yet incredibly small at the same time. “He said that you never judged him. That he could always trust you to steer him the right way. That he'd fly here from anywhere in the world to get a piece of your cornbread fresh out of the oven. He never said it, but – he loved you more than anything.” 

“You know something about that, don't you?” she asks. 

All I can do is give her a tight smile. I'm not ready to admit it yet. Not even to myself. But hearing that she knew it too somehow manages to soothe some of what I'm feeling. Looks like it wasn't just in my mind. There's a dull pang of grief at the realization. We could have had so much if we had the time. We could have ended up saying everything we didn't have the time to say. Except we did have the time, didn't we? Months fighting together. There were a lot of conversations, a lot of private moments when our teammates were busy with something else, even if only for a second. I could have said something. 

“Now, now, none of that,” Martha says sternly. I look up, surprised, and she pats my hand. “I won't have you hating yourself right here in my kitchen. You have to grieve in your own way. But that way has to lead to healing, not loathing. That's not what Clark would want.” 

“Clark would want to be alive.” 

The words are out before I can stop them, dull and flat, and I immediately want to take them back. But they're true. He was vibrant and optimistic and he never would have chosen to die if there was any other options. If nothing else, he wouldn't have wanted to leave his mother. She's strong and capable, and I don't doubt for a second that she'll outlast all us superhero idiots, but he was her son. He loved her. And his dad had died as a kid, I think he'd said, so he was all she'd had. 

Her eyes darken with grief for a moment, but then it clears and she nods. “Yes, he would. Very much so. But we're here instead, so...” She takes a deep breath and lets it out. “So we're just going to have to carry on instead. It won't be easy, but none of the-” 

“-real things are,” I finish with her. “He used to say that all the time. I always thought it was just to get on Wayne's nerves after a mission.” 

“Oh, I have no doubt it might have partially been because of that,” Martha says with a chuckle. “But it was also something his father used to say. That you have to fight for something, if it's going to mean anything, because if it's just handed to you, you'll never realize how important it is. Clark always took that to heart.” 

“He took everything to heart,” I agree. “I don't know how he did it, but no matter what came his way, he felt it, a hundred percent.” 

“Yes, he did.” Martha falls silent, and I mimic her, content to let her set the tone while I'm in her home. Eventually the clock chimes a new hour and it seems to startle her out of her thoughts. “Well, I've certainly kept you sitting here long enough. I suppose you have other things to do.” 

“Yeah,” I answer honestly, “but I'd rather not.” 

“In that case, darling, let me make you some cornbread. You've come all this way, so you might as well see what all the fuss is about.” 

“I'll help you.” 

We fall into a conversation while we work. Not about Clark, this time, but about other things as they come to mind. I didn't think we would find anything else in common besides him. Martha turns out to be surprisingly good at coming up with things to talk about. Or maybe I'm just that out of practice at chatting. Either way, time flies, and I end up staying for dinner instead of just cornbread. I have a feeling that it's not an accident. 

“This house feels so big, now,” she mentions as we stand on the porch together. The light above us flickers and buzzes until I reach up to tap it. 

“I'll come back.” It wasn't what I'd intended to say, but I know it's true the moment I say it. Clark and I might have never become anything, but Martha welcomed me into her home, for the sake of what he could have felt for me someday, and that's not a kindness that I can ignore. 

“Thank you, Arthur.” 

We stand there for a moment, quiet, listening to the frogs singing. It's funny, for all the hours I spend near the water, I rarely hear them. They don't live in salt water. It makes me wonder if Clark would have been able to. He never would have asked me to give up what I am, I know that, but would he have been all right with often my gaze returned to the sea? There's no use in thinking about it, but it still occupies my thoughts for a long few seconds. 

“I need to get going,” I finally say, and move toward the steps. The top board is cracked almost halfway through, I notice. I should fix that for her the next time I come. Before it has a chance to break and she falls. 

“If I may...” She hesitates, and I look over my shoulder at her. “What made you fall in love with him?” 

I can't say her question surprises me. I turn away from her again, my hands sliding into my pockets, and stare out over the fields I no longer see. Even though it's not easy to talk about him, knowing that she bears the same pain somehow makes it a little better. Besides, she's his mother. She has a right to know anything she wants – and if I were in her place, I think I might ask the same. When you couldn't care less about the stories and the powers and the hero gig, what drew you in? 

“His smile,” I tell her as I start down the steps, and I don't need to look back to know she understands.

**Author's Note:**

> I really and truly do not know how this happened. I was browsing some fics on AO3, ran into the Arthur/Clark tag, and next thing I knew, I'd already thought of the first few paragraphs of this fic. What? 
> 
> This is set in sort of an AU, where the Justice League was formed before Clark's death and existed for about six months or so before the events of BvS. 
> 
> Anyway. There might be more after this, there might not. I wrote this intending it to be a one-shot, but like all fanfic writers, I crave validation and comments, so enough of those can get me to do pretty much anything.


End file.
